Year of the Dog
by Jo the Phoenix
Summary: Bobby gets a talking to about love and fear. BDJPB
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were, but they're not.

A/N: If you don't like the idea of two people of the same sex finding love and contentment with each other, please broaden your mind. Until you do that, please don't read this fic. Thanks.

"Iceman!"

"Yo!"

Jubilee tossed a fortune cookie into his outstretched hands, and then continued to hand out the rest that were in the basket to the students that surrounded her.

Robert Drake studied the small blue cookie in his hands, smiling. He peered around at the other guests at Jubilee's Chinese New Years party and noticed that everyone else's cookies were coloured either red or golden yellow. Feeling absurdly special, he pulled the plastic wrap off of it and broke it in two. The small slip of paper inside it was marked with a smiley face and a short message in Jubilee's bubbly handwriting.

Do not be afraid to love.

The smile fell from Bobby's face and he stuffed the fortune into his jeans pocket. He glanced up at Jubilee again as she sent the students off to their dorms, refusing plaintive requests for more fireworks.

"Geez. You'd think they'd never see fireworks again, with the way they were carrying on!" She came over and plopped down on the couch beside him after bidding good night to the last guest to leave.

Bobby moved to get up, prepared to make good on his promise to help with cleaning and taking down the elaborate decorations, but Jubilee sighed and flapped a hand at him.

"Aaahhh, leave it for now. I need a minute or two to recover," she said. "Sit with me for a bit. Can I see your fortune?"

Bobby sat down again after fishing the paper from his pocket. Jubilee ran the slip of paper absently through her fingers after a cursory glance. "Fortune cookies aren't really Chinese, you know. But the students would have been upset not to have them."

Bobby drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa and nodded. "Yeah. Your fireworks were really great this year."

"Thanks. I've been practicing that dog one for a month and a half." She performed it again. A tiny plasmoid puppy ran across her hand and leapt at Bobby, but vanished in mid-jump. The pyrotechnics she had treated them all with earlier had been on a much larger scale: a brilliant blue hound had loped across the sky before exploding with a near-deafening bang into a massive shower of bright white sparks which winked out prior to touching the ground. Jubilee picked Bobby's fortune up off of her lap and continued to fidget with it. They sat quietly for a moment until Jubilee suddenly reached down to her black brocade purse that had been lodged between her feet.

"Almost forgot." She handed Bobby a red envelope. When he looked at it curiously, she smiled. "Tradition. All unmarried friends get one. It's for good luck."

Bobby opened it, and was shocked to find a crisp new one-hundred dollar bill in it.

"I can't take this!"

"Yes, you can! I just was lucky enough one night last month to kick Wolvie's and Gumbo's asses at poker. It'll never happen for me again, but maybe it'll bring you good luck. You could take Jean-Paul out for dinner or something."

Bobby stiffened. "What do you mean?"

"Come on, Bobby," Jubilee said, "Everyone knows. We all know. We all still love you."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Bobby said, immobile on his side of the sofa.

"Baloney! Wolvie says the two of you have been throwing off pheromones for weeks. He says you two had better get together soon, or he'll be driven batshit. He's taken Jean-Paul out drinking with they guys tonight, and is gonna give him the same talking to," Jubilee said.

"No. Jubilee, I – No. I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do! I've seen the way you look at him. No! Get your ass back here, now!" she pulled him back to the couch and placed a hand on either side of his face. She stared hard into his eyes. "I've seen how you act around him. You've changed since he's moved in. You've become a shell of your former self. You don't smile hardly at all anymore… I love you, Bobby, and I miss you!"

"Jubie-" His grey eyes shifted and he whispered, "I'm afraid, okay?"

"Of what? What people might say?" Her voice rose. "I'm gonna tell you what you _should_ be afraid of. It's not what reactions you're going to get from other people; it's not fear of rejection. What you should fear is going on like you have been. You'll whither away. And then, after years and years of never knowing love, _of being afraid of love_, you'll die. All alone. And so will he."

"When did you get so old, Jubilation Lee?"

"I grew up a long time ago. And don't change the subject. You gotta tell him how you feel. What is the absolute worst that could happen? Really?"

She handed him back his fortune, and he re-read it before exclaiming "You planted this, didn't you?"

"Duh! Didn't you notice that yours was the only blue cookie?"

Bobby ran his thumb over the ink. "'What's the worst that could happen?' He could laugh in my face."

"He won't."

"What if -"

Jubilee cut him off. "What if? What if pigs fly? What if the sky falls?" she ranted, "What if you never take a chance and never tell him how you feel? He's not going to wait forever, Bobby! What if you never tell him? You'll regret it for the rest of your life!"

Bobby groaned and pressed his head back into the sofa cushion. "You're right. How can I tell him?"

"I don't know. Who do I look like? Dear Abby? Maybe just grab him and give him a big fat smoocheroo."

"He'd kill me."

"At least you'd die happy." Jubilee grinned at him. "But, you know, if you're really lucky, he'll already be waiting for you in the back yard."

Bobby jumped up as if he'd been stung. "What?"

"Haven't you heard me? _We planned this!_ Wolvie was s'posed to convince him to wake up and smell the coffee, and if he did his job, Jean-Paul will be in the backyard by the skating rink. And if Wolvie didn't do his job," she added in a mutter, "I'll paf his insides."

Bobby did not hear her. He was halfway out the French doors.

Jubilee had said during her party that the Chinese Year of the Dog was supposed to be lucky for love. Bobby laid eyes on Jean-Paul and realized that she was right.


	2. Chapter 2

Year of the Dog

Chapter Two

A/N: I apologize for the long wait between the first and second chapter. I did not expect the nice reviews urging me to write more. I appreciate them. Thanks to all who reviewed and either put me on "favourites" or "story alert". Thank-you X 1000000!

Disclaimer: characters belong to Marvel. No monetary profit is being made from this expression of fan love.

Theme-type song: Amazing – Aerosmith. I can't listen to this song anymore without seeing Iceman.

More notes: slash fic. Don't read this if you're a homophobe. (Heh. I'm so succinct.) Also, there might be (might be!? _Will be_!) some 'out of character'ness. I know. I KNOW. Don't tell me. I already know. You could do better to tell some poor little Mary-Sue-er out there that she sucks. At least she'd be oblivious to the notion that she sucks. I already know my lack of skill. So don't tell me again, please.

On that note:

_Yeah, it's amazin', and I'm sayin' a prayer for the desperate hearts tonight…_

"Lee! For God's sake, leave the man alone! He doesn't wanna clean up after your party, and besides, he's comin' with us to the Robin for drinks tonight!" Wolverine, exasperated, shouted at a tenacious Jubilation Lee, who had been wheedling Jean Paul Beaubier for help with her Chinese New Years party. Logan grabbed Jean Paul's arm and steered him out of the kitchen.

"Thank-you, Logan. I don't understand why you put up with her," the man called Northstar said.

"Well, I got more patience than you, and I owe her a lot. So, you up for drinks with us tonight?"

"Who's 'us'?"

"Me, Sam, the Elf… Yeah, come with us. When Kurt gets really far-gone, he starts singing German drinking songs. It's hilarious."

"Well, let me grab my coat!" Jean Paul rolled his eyes. Somehow, the thought of Nightcrawler drunk out of his tree wasn't all that appealing.

"The whole mansion's gonna be full o' screamin', gigglin' mutant children revved up on pop and candy," Logan reminded him, "and what else do you have to do?" he chided.

"Go flying."

"Nuh-uh. Jubilee's fireworks, remember?"

"I can be flying over Fiji long before her pyrotechnics begin."

"Awww, c'mon! Join us. It'll be fun."

"You are as stubborn as Miss Lee."

"Maybe that's why we get along so great."

Jean Paul grumbled, but accepted the invitation. Logan laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. "Good man! We're leavin' at 8:30."

At 9:50 that night, Jean Paul's shoulder still ached. He shifted on his chair and peered around at the bar behind him. The bar was unusually busy, packed with humans and mutants alike. There was a party happening in one corner, and the entire premises had been treated earlier to an awful drunken rendition of "Happy Birthday". Waitresses bustled out of the kitchen area, carrying trays laden with snacks and drinks, and hurried back in with trays full of empty beer sleeves and pint glasses. Jean Paul remembered this bar from the night of Lorna's bachelorette party. The lights were dimmer tonight, and the crowd louder. He glanced around at the diners. Logan elbowed his ribs.

"So? What do ya think?"

"It's okay," Jean Paul said, feigning ignorance. He did not want to go into the details of Lorna's party with Wolverine. A shape-shifting male stripper was not something he wanted to discuss; especially not one that took the form of Remy LeBeau.

"You want another?"

"Huh?" Jean Paul, his mind still on remembrance of the dancer, did not understand Logan's question.

"A beer. You want another?" Logan spoke slowly and clearly.

"Are you trying to get me drunk?"

"Yeah."

Jean Paul was already affected by the previous five. Feeling warm and clever, he said, "Sorry, Logan, you're not my type."  
Wolverine grimaced and rolled his eyes, but gestured to their waitress for another couple of beers to be brought over.

"Are you really trying to get me drunk?"

"Yes."

"You know, _mon ami_, that I have a very high metabolism. These will wear off very quickly."

"Sure, sure." He shrugged indifferently and looked away.

Northstar turned his attention back to his table and tuned into Kurt and Sam's conversation. The most recent adventures of the Guthrie clan did not hold his interest, though, and he soon tuned out again.

"Why is Kurt not drinking?" he asked Logan, noticing the water glass in Kurt's three-fingered hand.

"He said he's gonna wait 'til later to get "_betrunken"_." Logan told him. The waitress, a jet-black-skinned, fanged girl, brought their beers over.

The four men sat for a while, casually shooting the shit. Jean Paul wasn't able to keep up with most of the gossip and references to events past, and so soon returned his focus to the muted tv. He was nearly finished his beer – was it his fifth or sixth? - when Logan finally picked his own up and slammed it back. He wiped his chin with his palm and rose to his feet, pushing his chair back with a screech.

"C'mon, Jean Paul, let's get some air," he said. Jean Paul tore his gaze from the tv mounted above the bar. His choices had been: watch the waitress, which Logan had been absorbed in; discuss the merits of the Seattle Seahawks with Kurt and Sam; or watch the tv. It was muted; although that probably increased his enjoyment of what ever dumb sitcom was on. It was still a relief to Jean Paul when Logan suggested heading outside.

"Well?" Logan slapped his jacket pockets, searching for a cigar.

"What?"

"How's your evening been?"

"Terrible."

"Better than screaming, giggling kids, though?"

"Not really."

Logan leaned back against the wall of the bar beside the door. He cupped his large hands around a match and lit his last cigar. He looked speculatively at Jean Paul for a moment. "We've know each other for a long time," he said. "Do you trust me, Jean Paul?"

"That depends on what you mean." Jean Paul suddenly felt suspicious. His silver hair tossed about in the cold January wind.

Logan flipped his hand impatiently. "You know I wouldn't screw with your mind or anything like that."

"I suppose. What's up?"

"Listen a moment," Logan said, and then fell silent.

"What?" Jean Paul was confused, but Wolverine only 'shh'ed him and cocked his head, listening to something that Jean Paul couldn't hear. Jean Paul strained his hearing, and the sound of the semis on the highway became apparent. An owl or something squawked not too far away. He was about to question the older man again when Logan spoke.

"You like Bobby Drake, don't you?"

Jean Paul knew immediately what the old man had been listening to – his heartbeat, which was now triple its normal pulse. Logan chuffed our laughter, which was swept away by the bitter wind. "Never mind, you don't need to answer," he said, smirking.

Jean Paul scowled, restraining his anger. Punching Wolverine would be pointless and painful. "_Que –_ 'Ow dare you?! That is completely inappropriate!" he lashed out verbally. "What I think of anyone is none of your concern!"

"Johnny," Logan said, hands held placatingly before him. His cigar hung from his still-smiling lips. "Jean Paul, stop," he said. Jean Paul shot him a furious look, but Logan continued. "It _is _my business."

"Why? How do you figure that?" he spat.

"Yeh've been throwing pheromones for the last month or so… it's really distracting. An' I don't envy Emma – she says she's picked up thoughts of yours on a few traumatizing occasions."

Jean Paul cringed, his anger forgotten in his embarrassment.

Wolverine grew serious. "C'mon, John. Why don't you just tell him?"

"What? Non! 'E's straight!"

"He sure as hell don't smell straight! Open yer pointy ears! I said "You've been stinkin' o' pheromones," – I meant "you've"… uh, vous… plural." Jean Paul winced at Logan's grating Anglophone pronunciation- "vooze". Logan continued, "I can't be in a room with the both o' you."

"I hate English," Jean Paul muttered. He slid down the wall and sat in the snow. "You think he – No. I can't believe that."

"The nose knows," Logan said as he stubbed his half-smoked cigar out on the door frame. He considered the younger man on the ground beside him, and then sat down as well. He rested his large forearms on his upraised knees and looked to Jean Paul on his left.

"I don't believe that," Jean Paul said again, without raising his head.

Logan sat in silence for a moment, then asked, "What was that girl's name? You know, the one who wouldn't leave you alone."

Jean Paul scowled, contempt writ on his elfin features. "Angelique," he said. "What does she have to do with anything?"

"Emma's figured out her mutant powers – She absorbs others' thoughts and feelings."

The fifteen-year-old had, shortly before Christmas developed a nearly uncontrollable attachment to the handsome Canadian businessman. Despite his almost frantic attempts to avoid her, she followed him ceaselessly.

"She still stalking you?"

"Non. Perhaps she looked 'gay' up in the dictionary."

"How long ago did she stop following you?"

"Mmm…" Jean Paul seemed to calculate, his brow furrowed. "Maybe two weeks ago?"

Logan grinned. "Do you think that it's a coincidence that, about two weeks ago, she was transferred from Bobby's homeroom to Emma's?"

"So? Unless she begins to dress like Emma Frost, I wouldn't attribute her behaviour to Bobby's thoughts, if that's what you're trying to imply."

"Of course that's what I'm tryin' to imply! The reason that Emma took her on is so that the poor kid has a chance to follow her _own_ thoughts – Emma, o' course, is able to shield herself, until Angelina - "

"Angelique," Jean Paul corrected distractedly.

"- is able to control her power fully."

"I still can't believe it," Jean Paul said.

Logan frustratedly got to his feet and glared down at Northstar. "Fine. _You_ go back tonight and explain to Jubilee why you weren't waiting by the skating rink - "

"What does Jubilee have to do with this?"

"She's got Bobby tonight. She's orchestrated this whole soap opera, and is presently talking him into meeting you in the courtyard by the skating rink in, oh-" Logan pushed up his jacket sleeve and glanced at his watch, "about fifteen minutes."

Jean Paul jumped to his feet.

"Where you goin'?" Logan demanded.

"I can fly there."

"Not at -25 degrees, you can't. Yer wearin' street clothes. Supersonic windchill'll freeze yer cajones off. 'Crawler has been waiting, drinking only water so he'll be sober to get you home."

"Why are you doing this? Why help me?"

"Well, I kinda owe you one, what with that whole Hydra thing," Logan said rather embarrassedly, "_And_ Jubilee's threatened me with cruel and unusual punishment…"

"She has you wrapped around her little finger," Jean Paul said wonderingly.

"Yeah, and she's got Bobby wrapped around the other pinkie. She cares a lot about that smart-assed twerp, and thinks he deserves to be happy for once."

Jean Paul abruptly embraced Logan. "Merci, mon ami."

"Yeah, yeah." Logan thumped his back and released him, then grew stern. Pointing a thick finger in his face, he said, "But I don't wanna see any of it! Anything more than a handshake between the two a ya…" He shook his finger once more in Jean Paul's face for emphasis, then shouted for Kurt over his shoulder.

Kurt Wagner appeared, smiling. "Ready?" He raised his indigo eyebrows.

"Does everyone know?" Jean Paul asked Logan.

"Now that you do, yes, everyone knows."

"That school is the worst place for gossip." Jean Paul shook his head.

Kurt, grinning, stepped forward and took Jean Paul's arm. The two of them disappeared in a puff of purple smoke.

Jean Paul staggered out of Nightcrawler's grasp as soon as his feet touched the ground. He coughed and waved a hand in front of his face to clear the sulfurous odour. When he looked up at Kurt, Kurt was peering off towards the mansion. Following his gaze, Jean Paul's breath caught in his throat Bobby was sitting on the couch with Jubilee. Her hand caressed his face, and Jean Paul's heart dropped. He whirled around, not wanting to see anymore. Kurt whispered "Good luck! _Auf weidersehen_!"

"_Non_! Kurt! _At_-" But Kurt was gone.

"_Attende_," he muttered weakly and pulled his long wool coat closer about himself. Upon leaving with Logan tonight, he couldn't find his hat or gloves, but reasoned that he wouldn't be spending time out of doors. Snarling at the cold and snow, he flipped his collar up and huddled into it. As he jammed his hands into his coat pockets, he could hear, very faintly, the strident sound of Jubilee shouting. He turned to face the French doors and was blasted by the freezing wind. He turned away again, searching for shelter.

The sodium lights were on over the skating rink, as were the little incandescent bulbs on either side of the door of the small warm-up hut. Jean Paul moved closer to the little wooden shed, but realized that when it was unattended, the heater was shut off. Still, it was better than standing in the blasting wind. The bench that ran along the front of the hut, scarred and splintered by countless skate blades, had a small dark bundle on it. It was his hat and gloves, along with a note. "Jean Paul. You owe me and Wolvie BIG TIME! Jubilee." Jean Paul wasn't sure whether to smirk or scowl, but he folded the note and tucked it into his coat pocket. The wind died a bit, and Jean Paul could hear Jubilee yelling again. He glanced at the mansion and tugged his toque down over his ears. He looked down at the bench, but decided not to sit. Instead, he wondered if he had left his skates on one of the many hooks in the warm-up hut or if he had brought them back to his quarters. A brief moment of deliberation, then he pulled the hut's squeaking wooden door open to check.

His skates were there, hanging on the third hook from the door. The heater hadn't been on at all during the day, and his skates were freezing cold when Jean Paul put them on and laced them up. His breath steamed out of his mouth as he stepped onto the ice and he pulled on his black Thinsulate gloves. Shivering, he made a slow lap of the rink. He felt the blades dig into the ice, and he almost smiled. He sprinted up along the boards, then stopped at the goal line, sending up a spray of shavings. Back again the other way before settling into laps at one hundred kilometers an hour.

About five hundred laps later, Jean Paul slowed and slid to center ice. The rink was rutted and chewed up from his meditative exercise. He looked around himself at the damaged surface. White loops engraved the center of the rink and ended at his skates. He peered down at the ice, and suddenly, the etching began to repair itself. Jean Paul watched, dumbfounded, as the skating rink transformed. It became utterly smooth and shiny. Jean Paul, his coat flapping against his legs, whirled around and was brought to a stand-still.

Bobby Drake was sitting on the boards, his legs dangling into the rink, watching him. Jean Paul straightened up slowly and his hands dropped to his sides. They regarded each other for a long moment before Bobby spoke.

"If you're going to skate that fast, you should talk to me first. I can make the ice denser for you, so it doesn't get rough so quickly."

"Okay. D'accord." He stepped closer.

"How was your night?"

Jean Paul shrugged. "Same old. But, uh, Logan had some interesting things to tell me." Bobby remained silent and Jean Paul rushed on.

"About myself. And he made me realize some things about you," he finished quietly. His gaze dropped to the pristine ice, but flicked up when Bobby pushed himself off of the boards and stood on the ice before him. Jean Paul slid closer, but stopped short and exclaimed suddenly, "Mon Dieu, Rober'! Aren't you cold?" then felt stupid at shouting the obvious. Bobby glanced at his tee-shirt sleeves and bare arms, and then grinned at Jean Paul's discomfiture.

"Right," Jean Paul muttered, embarrassed. Bobby stepped closer, fidgeting with a small piece of paper he pulled out of his jeans pocket. He handed it to Jean Paul.

"Jubilee made fortune cookies, and mine had some good advice," he said as Jean Paul read it.

"I've been afraid," Bobby continued, then corrected himself, "I _am _afraid." He shifted his feet and the ice beneath him rose a few inches. Jean Paul realized that it was in compensation for his own height – he was three inches taller while wearing his hockey skates. He looked up into Bobby's grey eyes and Bobby went on. "I like you, Jean Paul. I – um-" he stammered, but then couldn't say anything more.

Jean Paul skated the last step to close the distance between them, and he could hear both of their ragged breathing. His voice trembled. "Oh, Bobby. I had no idea."

"_Hab' ich einen Durst, Durst, Durst, Mir ist alles Wurst, Wurst, Wurst…" _Kurt Wagner sang. He was upside down (or was it the rest of the world that was upside down?). Humming loudly, he traveled, and as he did, he saw pieces of clothing on the ground, or were they in the sky? No, definitely on the ground. Kurt swung along, being carried over Logan's shoulder. Logan claimed that Kurt was too drunk to walk. Someone stumbled along behind them, and if Kurt lifted his head (but not too much, it was starting to hurt,) he could see that it was Sam. More clothing; there went a winter hat, looking lonely. Kurt peered at it blearily, wondering why it was laying there on the sidewalk. He swayed gently until Logan unlocked the back door leading into the rec room and stumbled over Jean Paul's long black coat, which had apparently been removed in great haste and dropped with little deliberation upon the dirty hardwood floor.

Logan cussed quietly but vehemently as he righted himself, shifting Kurt on his shoulder. Bidding a good night to Sam, whose room was down the opposite hallway to both Logan and Kurt's, he turned away, Kurt swinging. Logan wasn't sure if Kurt had passed out yet or not, but found his answer when Nightcrawler began another loud verse of the familiar jingle Logan referred to as the "'I am a sausage' drinking song".

"Hush! Damn, Elf, it's two a.m.!"

"Whoops!" Kurt exclaimed. Logan paused in his steady walk to Kurt's suite outside of Robert Drake's door. Melting ice and snow coated the wall above another item of clothing as proof of a loss of control. As Kurt burst into a bray of drunken laughter, Logan continued walking without investigating further. He truly did not want to know or even imagine what had happened there.

As he reached Kurt's room, Kurt had quieted, and Logan thought that the smaller man might finally be unconscious. He opened the door and considered simply tossing Nightcrawler onto his own bed, but walked over and gently placed him down. Every time they went returned home from a night at the bar, Logan always had the compulsion to just chuck him into his room. He wasn't sure why, but he thought it might have to do with the combination of repetitive German drinking songs and his bezerker nature.

Closing Kurt's door behind him as he left for his own quarters, he shook his head. Certainly, some of the strangest things in the world happened here in sleepy Westchester.

As he plodded quietly to his room, he changed his mind and made a buttonhook down the corridor to the kitchens. Maybe there'd be leftovers in the fridge from Jubilee's party. As he approached the kitchen, he saw there were still lights on. Another mid-night snacker, maybe.

It was Jubilee, sitting on one of the countertops, waiting for him with a blue fortune cookie in her hand.


End file.
